And It Shall Be a Benediction Upon Him
by AngelOfTheMoor
Summary: From Castiel's POV. Dean's soul is wounded, and Cas reacts. Dean/Castiel. One-shot.


**Author's Note: I've been watching _Supernatural_ for the first time, and now I'm a few episodes into Season 6. This story popped into my mind, and it wouldn't leave until I let it out. Reviews are appreciated. If you read this, I hope you enjoy it!  
**

**Disclaimer: I do not own _Supernatural_.**

Damage done, the demon fled. Castiel knew he should go after him, but Dean lay on the ground, a trickle of blood flowing from his temple, his eyes closed. Castiel scooped him up and transported the two of them to the motel room, where he laid Dean on the window seat, a thin beam of sunlight brushing his eyelids. Castiel placed two fingers on Dean's forehead then gasped.

There was a crack in Dean's soul.

Dean's eyes fluttered open, incomprehension clouding them. "What happened?" he croaked.

"Don't worry. We're safe," Castiel assured him.

Dean bolted upright, his hands grasping the windowsill to steady himself after the sudden movement. "Where's the demon?" he demanded.

Castiel averted his eyes. "It . . . got away."

"You let him go?!"

Castiel studied him. "You were—are—hurt."

"Still, you let him go?!"

Castiel gazed at him defiantly. "We'll get him when you're well." A momentary spasm convulsed Dean's body, and it took all of Castiel's strength not to cry out. "Do you know what that was?" Castiel asked, hoping his voice sounded neutral.

Dean smiled weakly. "Nothing," he replied gruffly. "I'm okay."

"You are _not _okay. Your soul's broken."

"Gee, thanks, Cas."

"I mean it."

"Tell me something I don't know."

"This is no time for jokes."

"I'm not joking."

Suddenly, it occurred to Castiel—of course. Dean did not understand; he thought Castiel meant the constant pain in his heart. "The demon opened up a fissure in your soul."

"What?"

"Your soul will tear itself asunder unless I heal you."

"Then heal me, dammit!" Dean narrowed his eyes. "You can, right?"

In one swift motion, Castiel knelt at Dean's side, grabbed his shoulders, and kissed him. The whole thing was over in a second. "Sorry, Dean. That must have been unpleasant for you. It's the only way I know how to mend a soul." Dean stared down at him with wide eyes, and Castiel was afraid he would spring into anger at any minute. "Dean?" he prompted softly.

"Do it again," Dean breathed.

Castiel was puzzled. "Dean. You're healed," he pointed out.

"I know," Dean replied before yanking Castiel toward him, his fingers digging into his coat lapels.

Then Dean's lips were on his, hard yet tender, lingering for much longer than a second. When Dean pulled back, he grinned. "I just wanted to kiss you."

Castiel didn't understand how he felt about what had just happened. A warmth bubbled up in his chest. What was it? Not love . . . that was different; he loved all of humanity, he loved his brothers and sisters, and that love did not feel like this.

No, this burned much more strongly.

Perhaps it was a different kind of love.

That must be it.

"Dean, I think I love you," Castiel pronounced. Dean just continued to stare at him. Maybe he should not have said that.

Finally, Dean reacted with one of his smirks. "You think you love me, huh?" Now Castiel found himself speechless. He knew what was coming next—one of those jokes he never understood.

But instead, Dean bent down and planted a kiss on his forehead. Then he smiled—a genuine smile, a rare gem. "I think I love you, too, Cas," he whispered.

The glow inside Castiel grew stronger, and his concern grew proportionately. "You should rest," he told Dean.

"Mmm. Not yet." He reached a hand out and began stroking Castiel's hair, the motion rhythmic. Only when Dean next spoke did he realize he must be grinning foolishly. "You like that, don't you?"

"'S nice," Castiel agreed.

"Me, too."

Castiel closed his eyes, let himself enjoy the sensation. After a while, he felt Dean's hand become still. He opened his eyes and discovered that Dean was asleep.

But Castiel did not wish to move.

He did not want to disturb Dean.

And he liked the weight of Dean's hand on his head.


End file.
